ttle cliffs fell away, stair fashion, to an exceeding
high and narrow gap which separated Little Thumb Butte from its
greater neighbor, Big Thumb Butte.

"Castle Craney Crow," smiled Foy with a proprietary wave of his hand.
"Just right for our business, isn't it? Make yourself at home, while
I take a peep around about." He bent to peer through bush and crack.
"Nothing stirring," he announced. He leaned his rifle against a
walling rock. "Let's have a look at that water."

He raised the canteen to his lips. Pringle struck swift and hard to
the tilted chin. Foy dropped like a poled bullock; his head struck
heavily against the sharp corner of a rock. Pringle pounced on the
stricken man. He threw Foy's sixshooter aside; he pulled Foy's wrists
behind him and tied them tightly with a handkerchief. Then he rolled
his captive over.

Foy's eyes opened; they rolled back till only the whites were visible;
his lips twitched. Pringle hastily bound his handkerchief to the gash
the stone had made; he sprinkled the blood-streaked face with water;
he spilled drops of water between the parted lips. Foy did not revive.

Pringle stuck his hat on the rifle muzzle and waved it over the
parapet of rock.

"Hello!" he shouted. "Bring on your reward! I've got Foy! It's
me--Pringle! Come get him; and be quick--he's bleeding mighty bad."

"Come out, you! Hands up and no monkey business!" answered a startled
voice not fifty yards away.

"Who's that? That you, Nueces? Give me your word and I'll lug him out.
No time to lose--he's hurt, and hurt bad."

"You play fair and we will. I give my word!" shouted Nueces.

"Here goes!" Pringle pitched the rifle over. A moment later he
staggered out between the rocks, bearing Foy's heavy weight in his
arms. The head hung helpless, blood-spattered; the body was limp and
slack; the legs dragged sprawling; the dreaded hands were bound.

Pringle laid his burden on the grass.

"Here he is, you hyenas! His hands are tied--are you still afraid of
him? Damn you! The man's bleeding to death!"

Chapter VI

"You treacherous, dirty hound!" said Breslin.

"Of all the low-down skunks I ever seen, you sure are the skunkiest!"
said Nueces. "The sheriff was right after all. Cur-dog fits you to a
T." He finished washing out the cut on Foy's head as he spoke. "Now
the bandages, Anastacio. We'll have the blood stopped in a jiffy.
Funny he hasn't come to. It's been a long while. It ain't the head
ails him. T